A is for ?
by handful of sky
Summary: A collection of Holmes/Watson shorts focusing on (but not limited to) friendship, humor, and romance.
1. Apple

A/N: It's been about a year since I published anything here and this tidbit barely qualifies as a story, but the idea kept lingering until I decided to get it down. My Castle muse and I haven't been on speaking terms for quite a while, so I thought a foray into another fandom was in order. I'll likely be adding other chapters with a progressive alphabetical theme.

Disclaimer: The characters are so very not mine.

* * *

**Apple**

"You're creeping me out, you know."

"Am I?" He seems surprised. "I should've thought you'd be well used to having an audience whilst operating."

"It's a snack, not surgery."

"That doesn't make it any less artful." He continues to study her hands raptly as she finishes coring the fruit and slices it into thin wedges. She arranges them in a circular pattern before dropping a generous dollop of peanut butter onto the middle of the plate. He picks up the discarded center of the fruit and looks at it thoughtfully. "It's a painfully obvious metaphor for our relationship, isn't it? You've performed a surgical excision of the addict and are hard at work improving what's left. I suppose that one doesn't become a surgeon unless possessed of an almost-pathological desire to fix broken things."

"I don't like that adjective," she says curtly. "The only people that use it are those that don't understand you."

"And you think you do?" He raises his eyebrows and smirks at her.

"Better than most." She drops her knife into the sink. "Enough to know that, as much as I've learned from you, you'll never run out of new things to teach me. Enough to know that I will never be your equal in the kind of work we do."

He hums noncommittally.

"Of course the one time I'd _prefer_ you argue with me..." she adds sarcastically.

"I respect you too much to attempt to bolster your ego with empty platitudes—" He nibbles around the edges of the core before tossing it into a discarded cereal bowl, "—but I believe you're underestimating the importance of the role you've had in my recovery."

"I didn't fix you, Sherlock. You might've been lost for a while, but you were never broken."

He cocks his head thoughtfully for a moment. "In that case," he says softly, "please accept my gratitude for helping me find my way." He seems humble and sincere and she's entirely unsure of what to make of him, so she takes an apple slice, drags it through the peanut butter, and holds it out to him.

Instead of taking it from her, he takes her hand inside his own, cradling it within his grasp as he lifts it to his mouth. His touch is warm and far gentler than she expected. She shivers a little at the contact and he tightens his grip in response. His eyes stay glued to hers as he eats the fruit from her hand, and she finds herself using the techniques he taught her to get a read on him. He blinks once, then again as his pupils dilate, and the nasalis muscles at the sides of his nose contract, causing his nostrils to flare. His facial muscles are broadcasting his arousal, and she feels an answering flush suffuse the skin on her face and chest. The weight of the knowledge of their shared attraction hangs heavily between them for the space of several breaths. Then she ventures a small, secretive smile and he grins broadly in return.

Their eyes are have been opened, they've seen each other naked, and they are not afraid.


	2. Balance

A/N: Thanks so much for all of the reviews, follows, and favorites. I had a lot of fun with this one. Each POV has exactly 500 words, because, well, that seemed only fair.

Disclaimer: As always, the universe and characters do not belong to me, nor do I expect to make any money from them.

* * *

**Balance**

Joan Watson isn't the woman she used to be.

Once upon a time, she had a comfortable rent-controlled apartment in a nice neighborhood. She had a job that she loved, friends who understood her, and a future that seemed all but assured.

Now she shares a place with a man who thinks nothing of using crime scene photos as wallpaper. Instead of saving the lives of others, she avenges their deaths. She still has a few friends, but they don't understand her and have, for the most part, stopped trying. It's the most bizarre set of circumstances imaginable, and it's her new normal.

It's not surprising that one of their cases would eventually lead them into a tattoo parlor in search of a suspect with a unique piece of artwork on his neck. What does come as a shock, however, is the visceral reaction she has to one of the patterns displayed on the artist's wall.

"It's a taijitu," Sherlock says when he notices her interest.

Turning around to face him would mean tearing her eyes away from it and she's not ready to do that.

"I know what it is," she says as she traces the flowing lines with a forefinger.

"Speaks to you, does it?"

"Something like that."

Actually, it _sings_. It's a commonly used symbol, especially in Chinese culture, but never before has it called for her to embrace the transition between the life she led before and the one she's living now. Yin and yang. Dark and light, water and fire. Life and death. Not opposing forces, but complementary ones. Each contains a seed of the other that grows until the roles are reversed, and the transition can begin anew. Harmony. Acceptance of what was, and what is, and what will be. She turns her focus outward, ignoring the look he gives her as they begin questioning the tattoo artist.

Three weeks later, during a lull between cases, she leaves the brownstone alone and doesn't return until a few hours later.

He lifts his head from some experiment on the kitchen table involving a colander, a meat thermometer, and a table lamp, scrutinizes her expression, and lifts his eyebrows. "May I see it?"

She shakes her head. She's not surprised that he knows, but she's not ready to share.

"I didn't put much thought into my own tattoos," he confesses. "The designs were fueled by too many drugs and too little sleep and no concern at all about how I would feel about them a year down the road, much less a lifetime."

"I think of them as a part of you," she offers.

"As do I," he says, "but I wear them with more stoicism than pride. You were far more deliberate. I never thought of your body as a canvas before, and I'd very much like to see what it is that has so much meaning for you."

Her resolve wavers for a few seconds, but she stays steadfast. "You will. When I'm ready."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes is not a patient man. From the way Watson carries herself, it's obvious that the tattoo is somewhere on her lower trunk. It's a simple matter to surreptitiously remove some of her clothing from her room over the course of the next few days, leaving her with only low rise pants and short tops. It's even simpler to relegate the clean mugs to the topmost shelf in the kitchen cabinet. The stage set, he pours himself a bowl of cereal, determines which chair will give him the best vantage point, and sits down to wait.

By the time she comes downstairs, his cereal's turned to mush. He drops the spoon into the bowl and watches intently as she reaches for a mug for her tea. Just as he planned, her shirt lifts enough to reveal a wide swath of creamy skin. Unfortunately, there are no visible marks on her lower back, but he can make out a slim tendril of what he suspects is a sun pattern haloing the taijitu emerging from just above her left hip. Seeing something and yet nothing is maddening and he finds himself conjuring up and then promptly discarding a half dozen ploys to get her out of her clothing so that he can see it fully.

"it's killing you, isn't it?" she asks as she pours her tea.

"I beg your pardon?"

She puts a hand over her hip. "Knowing. And yet, not knowing. I'm going to take a shower now. I know locks won't stop you, but if I see that door open so much as one centimeter, our arrangement is over. I expect my clothes to be back in my room before I'm out, and I expect them to be put away neatly." She almost gets out of the kitchen before stopping and turning to face him again. "Oh, and it should go without saying, but it's you, so I'm going to say it anyway so that there's no chance of you misunderstanding. You WILL wait until I choose to show it to you."

He nods and she gives him her back again as she goes to take her shower. Push and pull, ebb and flow, advance and retreat; it's the same stubborn pattern they've followed for some time, but patterns are funny things, and they're prone to change when you least expect them to.

One year, three months, and twenty-two days later, he holds her hips tightly as he traces the sinuous line between the light and dark shapes with his tongue. Fear and bravado, strength and weakness, caution and impulse, male and female. He and Watson are are all of these things and much, much more.

He blows a puff of cool air across her skin just to see the shiver that ripples across the muscles below. "Beautiful."

She turns below him and throws a leg over his shoulders before welcoming him into the cradle of her hips.

"Yes," she breathes softly as they move together. "We are."

_fin_


	3. Cadence

Okay, so "C" was supposed to be for "conundrum", but since Sherlock actually used it last week in a context radically different than what I had planned, I lost my mojo and had to start all over. Many, many thanks to all who have read, reviewed, followed, etc. Feedback of any sort is always appreciated.

Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my universe, blah, blah, so on and so forth.

* * *

**Cadence**

The brownstone has an audible presence in his life—the soft gurgle of the pipes, the hiss of the furnace, and the creaks and groans of decades-old joints moving as though to find some surcease from the cold and damp. When he was still actively recovering, the endless array of different noises contributed to his edginess. Now he finds them more comforting than vexing. This is not his home. Nonetheless, it is home _to_ him, and now, by extension, to Watson as well.

He's gradually becoming accustomed to her own unique rhythms. When he hears the soft padding of bare feet (or more often, stocking feet) on the floor overhead, he knows he'll soon hear the creak of the wardrobe and the slide and thump of the dresser drawers as she chooses fresh clothing. There's a squeak of old hinges as she opens her door and makes her way into the bathroom. Morning ablutions complete, she'll come down the stairs (the fourth from the top always squeals in resentment at being trod on—probably should fix that one of these days), often accompanied by the staccato tapping of her favorite new stiletto-heeled boots.

Her speech patterns are very distinct as well. When she's angry with him, her sentences become short and choppier than usual. When she's proud of herself, her tone is firm and measured, but her voice contains a lilt that indicates that she's beginning to understand just how much she's capable of.

Tonight, she is very proud of herself, and rightfully so. They closed a cold case for Gregson, and her input was pivotal. They celebrate with Indian food and crepes topped with honey. She offers to wash up after dinner, and he sits on the couch and tries to remember the last time he felt this content. Finally, he dozes off to the reassuring clinking of the dishes being returned to their proper places.

He wakes suddenly and violently, his mind whirling with images of pain and loss. She died and he found her again, only to have Moriarity take her away once more. He doesn't realize that he'd shouted out loud until he hears her quick footsteps on the stairs, skipping every other one by the sound of it, and he calls out, "It's all right!" to save her tumbling headfirst the rest of the way.

She slows down to a more reasonable pace and crosses the room in the semidarkness to stand beside him as he rubs his palms over his face. "No, apparently it's not. Irene?" she guesses.

"No." She's wearing a white camisole and flannel pants and she doesn't flinch as he launches himself toward her and scrutinizes her torso, turning her around with hands that shake in relief as he takes in the smooth, unbroken skin.

"It was me, wasn't it?"

His silence is answer enough for her.

"I'm still here," she says softly.

She lowers herself to the couch, taking his hand and pulling him to sit beside her. He lays his head on her chest and settles into her warmth, knowing and not caring that his stubble is scratching her. She holds him tightly to her and eases them back into the cushions, pillowing his head just above her left breast. He hears the beat of her heart, feels its strength, and knows that's it's enough to sustain them both.

"I'm still here," she whispers again.

_Still here, _her heart echoes reassuringly beneath his cheek as he sighs and allows himself to relax into her embrace.

_Still here_

_Still here_

_Still here_

_Still_

**_fin_**


	4. Drug

Two chapters in two days? Yeah, don't get spoiled. I had this one halfway written while I was still sorting through ideas for "C". It'll likely be a week or more before I finish the next chapter: Erudite. Many, many thanks for all the kind comments. As someone new to the fandom, I'm very appreciative of the warm welcome!

Disclaimer: Does anyone actually read these? Anyone? Bueller? Still not my characters or universe.

* * *

**Drug**

_Saturday_

Watson is leaving and Holmes is feeling downright ebullient.

He opens the door for Alfredo and calls up the stairs, "Your chariot has arrived!"

"Just a minute," she calls back. "My zipper is stuck."

He isn't entirely sure whether she's referring to an article of clothing or one of luggage and he's well aware of her prejudice against being seen in dishabille, so he declines to offer assistance. A few moments later, the humming of plastic wheels against the wood flooring indicates that the situation has been resolved.

Alfredo takes the steps two at a time and meets her at the top, promptly relieving her of her bags.

"You packed light," he says as he jogs back down again. "Not that I mind."

"Well, it's only a week," she replies as she follows him down.

She's going to California for the funeral of an aunt and has decided to stay for a few extra days to visit with relatives. She trusts Holmes enough, and, more importantly, he trusts himself enough to make it through the week without a companion, sober or otherwise.

"I'm double parked, so say your goodbyes quickly." Fredo gets one foot over the threshold before turning back to skewer Holmes with a look. "I already promised her that I would make sure you came to the meeting this week, so don't make me a liar, okay?"

"Rest assured, I _will_ be there," he says firmly.

Watson stops in front of him. "If you think this is a bad idea—"

"On the contrary, I think it's a splendid idea," he interrupts. "While working with you and instructing you in the art of investigation have been extremely rewarding, there are a number of projects that will occupy my attention while you are gone and none of them, I assure you, involve a relapse on my part."

"Okay, then. I believe you." She shifts her feet awkwardly for a moment before blurting out, "I'll miss you."

He blinks in surprise but before he can form any coherent answer, the blare of the car's horn interrupts them. "Not if you don't leave," he says cheerfully as he takes her elbow and steers her through the door. "I'll see you again in a week's time."

She makes her way to the car without a backwards glance and he waits until they are out of sight before making his way back inside. He thinks over all of the things he'd like to accomplish this week and decides to begin at the top and work his way down. The apiary it is, then.

* * *

_Sunday_

Always a slow day for crime. He turns the array of televisions up as loud as he likes, (which is considerably louder than she likes) and has cereal for breakfast and lunch, leaving the bowls on the coffee table. He can always wash up before she gets back. The hives yielded a fair amount of beeswax and he takes the time to process it with the utmost care. The resulting honey is delicious on toast for dinner and the golden yellow candles came out beautifully. It's really quite amazing how much he can accomplish when left to his own devices. The honey has given him a burst of energy, so he reads a book on graphology that Watson brought home recently. It's rubbish. He tosses it into the bin to make sure that she's never exposed to its gross inaccuracies. What she needs to know, he'll teach her himself. He doesn't bother to sleep.

* * *

_Monday_

Still no new case. (He calls Bell, just to double check). Clyde's shell has always struck him as rather boring, but judicious use of a brush and nontoxic black paint makes it far more expressive, and Clyde doesn't seem to mind. Holmes considers texting Watson a photo, but he's quite proud of his artwork and decides he'd rather see the expression on her face when she returns. He begins to plan Watson's lessons for her return, focusing on fingerprint science and methods of personal disguise. Meeting her at the airport looking like a middle-aged shopkeeper from Morocco would provide her with some much-needed firsthand experience, but his time would likely be better spent finishing his monograph on the link between violent crime and lead exposure. He finally falls asleep on the couch.

* * *

_Tuesday_

He wakes with a sour stomach and an excruciating headache. The light streaming into the brownstone indicates that it's midmorning. He can't remember the last time he ate something, so he settles for a slice of toast and a cup of tea. While it's steeping, he rubs at his temples and checks his phone, hoping that a case has finally come up. It hasn't. Listening to the police scanner produces nothing of interest, bar a report of the foot pursuit and eventual capture of a purse snatcher who was working the area of Strawberry Fields whilst disguised as John Lennon.

The funeral was yesterday. He's somewhat surprised that she's not yet texted to check up on him, but ultimately concludes that she views this forced separation as something of a test. There's nothing he needs from her and he'll not intrude on her grief with idle chatter, so he sets the phone back on the table and heads upstairs for a shower. He'd forgotten that he used the last dregs of his shampoo the last time that he showered (_Sunday?), _so he reaches automatically for hers, only to start as her scent fills the small space. She is here and, yet, she is not, and he leans against the tile and allows his sense of smell to momentarily supersede all the others.

* * *

_Wednesday_

He stands in the entrance to her room, taking in her presence and her absence. Her things are still here, at least the ones that she didn't pack for the trip. The bed is neatly made, but the photos on the dresser and the sweater carelessly thrown over the chair speak loudly of an owner who fully intends to return for them. Nevertheless, the chair and the bed remain empty and will continue to do so for the next few days. For some reason, he finds that the sight of the unoccupied chair rankles, so he crosses the room and seats himself in it. He likely uses it more than she does, and as much as it discomfits her to wake to his presence, she's never locked her door against it. Staring at the empty pillow only reinforces the image he holds in his mind of the stark contrast of her black hair splayed out across the white fabric, and he feels a fool for sitting here without her. He tells himself that he'll leave within ten minutes. In the end, he is off by an order of magnitude.

He makes it to the meeting that night with a few minutes to spare.

Alfredo looks him over with more than a little concern. "You doing all right, man?"

"Of course," Holmes answers with as much aplomb as he can muster. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"You tell me," Alfredo shrugs. "I know you're not using, but you just look a little strung out all the same."

"I was ill yesterday," he explains, "but I'm better now."

Excuse made and accepted, they sit through the remainder of the meeting. At some point, Holmes nods off and Alfredo has the decency to not wake him until the meeting ends.

* * *

_Thursday_

His phone rings as he's trying in vain to find a clean bowl for his breakfast and he finds himself slightly irritated that the caller is Bell and not Watson. That irritation lasts exactly as long as it takes him to get to the crime scene, at which point it develops into a full-blown fury. It should have been patently obvious to anyone with even a modicum of training that the first officer at the scene of the homeless man's homicide was, in fact, the murderer. The officer's flashlight had a cracked lens and there was a long scrape along the wood of his nightstick that corresponded with a smear of black paint on the wall directly behind where the body was found. Of course, the officer would have been able to change clothes and shower long before the body was eventually 'discovered'. Holmes is confident that Watson would have picked up on those clues as well and he finds himself acutely aware of her absence. It's an opportunity lost, but there will always be another.

* * *

_Friday_

It's time for the monthly refrigerator cleanup. While cleaning the shelves, he notes that they're out of milk. So much for his dinner plans. No matter. Watson will be home soon and she'll likely be less than pleased with the current contents of refrigerator and pantry. He goes shopping for staples and picks up a few of her favorite things while he's out. When he returns home, he's somewhat perplexed to realize that there's no room for the grocery bags on the table. It's still covered with candle molds, shreds of wax, and smears of honey.

He wishes he still had his arrangement with Miss Hudson, but she's found permanent work elsewhere. While Watson has become somewhat inured to his general disdain for cleaning, he's quite capable of doing it when he's in the proper frame of mind. He scours the bottom floor for dishes and manages to get them all cleaned, dried, and put away. A quick sweeping and a light dusting are next, and then he finally tackles the waxy, sticky remnants of the honeycomb. After everything is sorted out properly, he chooses one of the candles that turned out particularly nicely and decides to place it in her room as a welcoming gift.

Once again, he stops at her threshold. Her empty room holds the same aura of expectation that he's felt all day. It's as though someone pressed the pause button on a recording and is waiting for just the right moment for the action to begin again. He steps hesitantly into her space and places his offering atop her dresser before sitting on her bed. He told her once that he is better with her, never realizing the full magnitude of the difference until this week. He lowers his head into the concavity of her pillow and sighs softly as he finally accepts the illogical, inescapable, highly vexing realization that he's somehow, quite unexpectedly, managed to trade one addiction for another.

* * *

_Saturday_

Watson is returning, and Holmes is feeling downright ebullient.

He stands at the window, bouncing excitedly on his toes until Alfredo finally pulls up. He's at the sidewalk in an instant, opening Watson's door as Alfredo retrieves her bags, then taking her by the elbow and steering her into the brownstone.

"How did things go?" she asks.

He thinks of all of the possible answers to her question and chooses the most simple and direct one. "I missed you." Her smile lights up her face and he wonders again at the sheer idiocy and hubris he displayed when they first met and he tried his damnedest to drive her out of his life.

Alfredo drops her bags at the door with a wink and a smile and waves off her thanks as he drives away.

She walks through their home, silently taking in the freshly cleaned surroundings before bursting into laughter when she discovers Clyde, who now looks as though he resides inside a Volkswagen Beetle. "I guess you kept yourself busy. You solve any interesting cases while I was away?"

"Just the one," he says softly. "There was a fair amount of data to sort through. I thought I'd consult with you to see if I arrived at the correct conclusion."

He cups his hand around her cheek and tilts her face up to his before kissing her gently.

She twines her hands around the back of his neck and presses her body into his. If the way she kisses him back is any indication, his conclusion is not only correct, but, in fact, long overdue.

_fin_


	5. Erudite

Thanks for all the kind reviews! I appreciate each and every one. I haven't decided on a theme for "F" yet, so, if you've got an idea, let me know!

Disclaimer: As always, the characters are not mine.

* * *

**Erudite**

After she finds herself nodding off for the fourth time, Joan tosses the book onto the coffee table and rubs at her eyes.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"I can't believe you want me to read this," she says dispiritedly. "This has to be one of the most poorly-written books I've ever read, and graphology is practically a dead science anyway. Who writes anything by hand anymore?"

"I assure you, it's still relevant," he insists. "While I admit that younger generations are unlikely to pen anything more complex than a shopping list, Gregson's file of cold cases contains several handwritten documents. I concede that the book is full of grammatical errors, but the analysis is solid and many of the examples are top-notch."

"I'll take your word for it."

"Excellent." He turns his attention back to his article.

She sighs, thinks about going back for a fifth attempt, and decides she's had enough. "I'm sure even you would agree that there are some things that just can't be learned through study, though. What about people with savant syndrome?" she asks. "Many of them are able to play elaborate pieces of music perfectly or do complex mathematical calculations without any education at all."

"There's a reason they used to be called 'idiot' savants. Oftentimes they were incapable of tying their own shoelaces. It's an extremely poor tradeoff, if you ask me." He gets to his feet and drops his journal to the floor before moving to peruse the bookcases. "Still, graphology is hardly crucial right now. So tell me, Watson, what do you want to know?"

There's no way to answer that question, because she wants to know _everything_. Not just about what he knows and how he knows it, but about who he was and who he wants to be and what their partnership will look like in the future.

She wants to know what he thinks about while he watches her sleep. She wants to know why he's better with her and why she has such a hard time admitting to herself that she's better with him. She wants to know how she can ever date another man without comparing him to Sherlock.

She wants to know just how far he would go to keep her safe. Would he kill for her? Would he die for her? She's thought a lot about it in the days since Moriarty made herself known and she's sure the answer to both of those questions is a yes. She would leave tomorrow if she thought that would change things, but the truth is that her presence may well keep him out of harm's reach. They are better together and the reason why is a mystery that they may never solve.

Finally, she throws up her hands in defeat. "I don't know where to start. What do you want to tell me?"

* * *

He stops cold for a moment, taken aback by all of the possibilities. There are so many things he wants her to know, but sharing them now would likely change their relationship irrevocably. It's impossible to know whether those changes would be for the better or for the worse.

He wants to tell her that he does, in fact, think she's foxy, although not in the vulgar, idiomatic sense. Perhaps fox_like_ would be more apropos. Foxes aren't pack animals and they tend to live either alone or in small family groups. They are clever, observant, and somewhat shy. They are also quite beautiful.

He wants her to know that he feels vaguely uncomfortable every time the first or the fifteenth of the month rolls around. He's well used to paying for companionship, but handing her a paper cheque felt far too much like pulling a wad of twenties from his pocket. She didn't seem nonplussed at all, but readily agreed to his request to use wire transfers in the future. It's a necessary arrangement—she has the continuing expenses of her share of the food, her cell phone, clothing and other personal indulgences—but it still feels as though he's buying her friendship. And as long as she is his employee, he can't allow himself to wonder about what else they might be to each other.

He'd like to tell her that it was worth it—Irene's loss, his addiction, Moriarty's betrayal. He wouldn't go through that experience again for anything, but the measure of grace and redemption that he's found on the other side have made the memories bearable. Watson's presence has burned through the dross of his life and made him feel like a new penny. Bright. Shiny. _Clean._

"Well?" Her hands are on her hips and her head is tilted just enough to indicate more humor than annoyance, more intelligence than impatience. Yes, definitely _foxy._

Her brow wrinkles in confusion. "Excuse me?"

He clears his throat abruptly and lunges for a book in the medical section. "I said 'poxy'," he asserts firmly as he hands her the thick volume.

She scans the inside leaf quickly. "You want me to read a book on the correlation between crime and recurrent syphilis infection?"

He looks over her bemused expression, over the rest of his library, over his life. "It's a start."

_fin_


	6. F is for ?

A/N**: F **was originally supposed to be for "Fracture", but I found that the story took on a life of its own and doesn't fit in as a part of this series. It will be posted separately (hopefully, within the week), but I still wanted to have an F-themed entry for this series. As a compromise, I've written a few drabbles (all exactly 100 words) based on prompts left in the reviews. I seriously considered all of the prompts, but if yours didn't speak to me, please feel free to try again for G!

Disclaimer: As always, the characters are _so_ not mine.

* * *

**F is for...**

**FANCY **(prompt by ?)

**F**irst, he tries complimenting her wardrobe. The only thing the effort nets him is a raised eyebrow.

**A**fter that, he tries fixing her breakfast. She ignores the waffles and checks his forehead for signs of fever.

**N**ext, he attempts to show empathy and offers her medication for her obvious case of menstrual cramps. She's less than appreciative.

**C**andor is his final option; he asks if she knows of a medical reason for the way his pulse quickens whenever she smiles.

**Y**ears later, she still teases him about his seduction techniques. They can't have been all that bad; they eventually worked.

* * *

**Father **(prompt by Caution Tape)

They're up late working on a case when his phone rings. Three a.m. phone calls are rarely good news. She tries to leave to give him some privacy, but he takes her hand and pulls her to sit beside him.

When he hangs up a few minutes later, she says, "I'm sorry."

"As am I," he sighs, "although not for the reasons that you might expect. He was largely absent during my childhood and continually disapproving throughout my adolescence. Still, he eventually redeemed himself in a spectacular fashion." He brushes his thumb across her knuckles. "He brought us together."

* * *

**Finally **(prompt by orangeness18)

He presses an open-mouthed kiss to the base of her spine and sighs, "I didn't expect for this to happen."

Ironically, some part of her has always felt that this day was inevitable. "Are you sorry that it did?"

He pauses just long enough to make her feel self-conscious. "No. My feelings about the situation are quite complex, but they do not include regret."

She slowly releases a breath that she didn't realize she was holding. "Good, because I don't regret sleeping with you either."

"That's not what I meant," he says softly. "I didn't expect to fall in love."


End file.
